


Decline

by PepperPrints



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If anything, this proves to him that the Ishvalan has a sense of humor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decline

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Uwiąd](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2461937) by [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka)



> For 31_days. Prompt: the truth is rarely pure and never simple. The prompt _is_ in there, just buried under all my unintended deviation.
> 
> Continued from a former work of mine: [Mutation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/707854).

If anything, this proves to him that the Ishvalan has a sense of humor.

 

Scar has told Kimblee that he does not intend to kill him, and he is making good on that promise now. It still _feels_ like murder, but not so much that Kimblee can deny a certain admiration. He is bound head to foot, a spot of sullied white against the sand. He is cooking in his own skin, hazy and dehydrated. His mouth is dry, his eyes burn, and his skin crawls with sticky sweat and sand. All the while, Scar watches. Scar isn't showing it, but Kimblee knows he's entertained: Kimblee froze Scar in the North, and now Scar is letting Kimblee burn in the desert.

 

He has never seen the Ishvalan smile, and now he feels a certain yearning for it – even if at his own expense.

 

Unlike Scar's torture, Kimblee still has his clothes, for obvious reasons. This is part of the desert is far harsher than he remembers from the war. Back then, his military uniform was much heavier, but he never felt it suffocate him like this does now. Even the light material of his suit feels thick and smothering in this heat, soaked with sweat and sufficiently ruined; he still has the sense of mind for vanity. His hair is spread out on the sand, inky black standing out starkly against the pale terrain. Fallen strands cling to his face, stuck there by sweat, and he is short of breath.

 

Above him, the Ishvalan stands, impassive and detached. He hasn't been watching the entire time; he leaves in small bursts to presumably feed himself and drink or take a leisurely stroll for all Kimblee knows. During those moments alone, Kimblee does attempt an escape, but Scar is clever with his work. Kimblee is tightly bound, and his tattoos have been destroyed.

 

The latter should seem more concerning, but Kimblee is rational. The ink of the tattoos has worn out before through natural means. Even careful and attentive to his hands as he is, the skin wears down and often the designs require touching up. It's routine maintenance. Scar has destroyed the surface of his skin, but it will heal and be a perfectly fine canvas again. The only problem here is that the wounds are still fresh, and his struggling gets sand in the open skin, itchy and burning and driving him mad in the back of his mind.

 

Scar has done that on purpose, he's sure.

 

Just like how he purposefully returns with a canteen this time. He uncaps it casually, takes a drink, and Kimblee gazes up at him with slanted eyes. He knows Kimblee is desperate for water, and he wants him to beg for it.

 

“I didn't know you were such a sadist,” he remarks, voice straining but still purring.

 

Even with the sunglasses, it's easy to see that Scar's eyes narrow. “Oh, you're cruel,” Kimblee continues, his tongue feeling thick and alien in his dry mouth. “That's no question, but you've always been very direct with all the other alchemists. You don't play with your prey – but you're playing with me. I'm honored.”

 

Unresponsive as ever, Scar sips from the canteen. Kimblee's mouth should be watering, but he's too dried out for even that. His throat is hoarse and his mouth feels gritty. Still, he continues to speak despite this. “I'm the same.” He smirks. “I like the main event best; I don't usually wait around to watch the squirming afterward.”

 

Slowly lowering the canteen, Scar's posture stiffens slightly: he can tell where this is going. “I really should have stayed, though, back then with your family,” he sighs, sinking back against the sand. “For your brother to die that way... giving you that arm. He killed himself so you could live. It's brutal, to die bleeding out like that. It's agonizing, and it's so drawn out: a slow and painful death... one of the worst. You'd know, wouldn't you, since you almost died that way yourself?”

 

This is a gamble, since the last time Kimblee mentioned Scar's brother, he ended up with a hole in his abdomen. Scar showed that rare dark humor again that time ( _you said it was his left side, yes?_ ) and Kimblee had been too busy bleeding to appreciate it, but he treasures it now.

 

“Come to think of it... what are Ishvala's beliefs on committing suicide?” he asks, cocking his head. “Technically, that's what he did, isn't it? Even for a noble cause, suicide is suicide. Perhaps he's in--”

 

Kimblee doesn't get a chance to finish. Scar's booted foot comes against the back of his head and pushes down. It's not a powerful blow; it isn't meant to hurt him, but rather to demean him. Scar grinds his face down into the sand, holding him there until Kimblee is almost certain he will suffocate. Vowing not to squirm, Kimblee holds his breath, but when his lungs begin to burn and his chest constricts he can't fight the instinct to save himself. He thrashes under Scar, believing for several agonizing seconds that Scar is serious this time – but then he draws back, and kicks him again so Kimblee is on his back, letting him breathe.

 

The display Kimblee makes is far from dignified. He chokes, gasping and heaving as he tries to catch his breath. He's desperate for precious, precious oxygen, twisting in the sand and moaning. The sweat on his face makes the sand cling to his skin, and he sputters, coughing up gritty sand and spit.

 

“Mention my brother again,” says Scar, his voice level, low and very serious. “And I'll take your tongue.”

 

Breathlessly, Kimblee laughs, his eyes too wide as he gazes up at Scar. He feels dizzy from the heat and now the lack of air; Scar is blurry and the world spins a little. “Will you?” he taunts. “My, that's obscene. You're worse than I thought.” But his tone doesn't show disgust at all; just pleasure.

 

Kimblee has achieved something, since the Ishvalan finally moves. He drops to one knee, crouching down closer to Kimblee. His shadow blocks out the glare of the sun, for which Kimblee is very grateful for. “You know nothing of me,” counters Scar bluntly, his hand raising to remove his sunglasses, exposing those eyes that Kimblee is oh so fond of.

 

“I know you're torturing me,” responds Kimblee simply, “for no gain but to watch me squirm. That's the ugly truth of it all. You're impure and corrupt – and you're complicated. I told it to you before: you're like me.”

 

Scar says nothing, and Kimblee tries to prop himself up. He fails and falls back again, laughing at himself and at Scar – at all of this. “Is it fun?” he asks. “Is it satisfying?”

 

He wants to hear Scar admit it. He wants to see him grin. He wants to feel his fury. He wants to taste his lips again.

 

At this point, kissing Scar would be like swallowing a cool glass of water. Kimblee's dry, sore mouth aches even more, and the desire just about consumes him.

 

The Ishvalan grabs a handful of his disheveled hair and pulls. Wincing as his head is forced back, Kimblee keeps his smile, suddenly very much aware of just how close Scar is. Suddenly, that kiss he imagines doesn't seem all that improbable. Kimblee can feel Scar's breath on his cheek, and he stares back into those crimson eyes of his, smirking.

 

“I can tell you want to do two things,” offers Kimblee, “Kiss me, or kill me.”

 

Or maybe both – that seems like just as likely an option.

 

But Scar does nothing. He stays where he is, his fingers buried in Kimblee's hair and his eyes narrow. Kimblee waits, and the seconds seem to drag like hours while they remain still and silent. Eventually, Scar lifts the canteen again, uncapping it with his teeth and pouring water over Kimblee's face. He's deliberately sloppy, not staying still for enough to let Kimblee try to catch too much in his mouth. It's a twisted little game, but Kimblee is too parched to not play it. Scar continues until there's no water left, then he releases Kimblee's hair, rising back to his feet.

 

“No,” says Scar simply. “You're too pitiful for either.”


End file.
